O WHAT harper could worthily harp it, Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold (Look out _wold_) with its wonderful carpet Of emerald, purple, and gold! Look well at it—also look sharp, it Is getting so cold. The purple is heather (_erica_); The yellow, gorse—call’d sometimes “whin.” Cruel boys on its prickles might spike a Green beetle as if on a pin. You may roll in it, if you would like a Few holes in your skin. You wouldn’t? Then think of how kind you Should be to the insects who crave Your compassion—and then, look behind you At you barley-ears! Don’t they look brave As they undulate—(_undulate_, mind you, From _unda_, _a wave_). The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint it Sounds here—(on account of our height)! And this hillock itself—who could paint it, With its changes of shadow and light? Is it not—(never, Eddy, say “ain’t it”)— A marvellous sight? Then yon desolate eerie morasses, The haunts of the snipe and the hern— (I shall question the two upper classes On _aquatiles_, when we return)— Why, I see on them absolute masses Of _filix_ or fern. How it interests e’en a beginner (Or _tiro_) like dear little Ned! Is he listening? As I am a sinner He’s asleep—he is wagging his head. Wake up! I’ll go home to my dinner, And you to your bed. The boundless ineffable prairie; The splendour of mountain and lake With their hues that seem ever to vary; The mighty pine-forests which shake In the wind, and in which the unwary May tread on a snake; And this wold with its heathery garment— Are themes undeniably great. But—although there is not any harm in’t— It’s perhaps little good to dilate On their charms to a dull little varmint Of seven or eight. ARCADES AMBO. WHY are ye wandering aye ’twixt porch and porch, Thou and thy fellow—when the pale stars fade At dawn, and when the glowworm lights her torch, O Beadle of the Burlington Arcade? —Who asketh why the Beautiful was made? A wan cloud drifting o’er the waste of blue, The thistledown that floats above the glade, The lilac-blooms of April—fair to view, And naught but fair are these; and such, I ween, are you. Yes, ye are beautiful. The young street boys Joy in your beauty. Are ye there to bar Their pathway to that paradise of toys, Ribbons and rings? Who’ll blame ye if ye are? Surely no shrill and clattering crowd should mar The dim aisle’s stillness, where in noon’s mid-glow Trip fair-hair’d girls to boot-shop or bazaar; Where, at soft eve, serenely to and fro The sweet boy-graduates walk, nor deem the pastime slow.